Taking Care of Mr Holmes
by KendraPendragon
Summary: Sick!lock. Sherlock gets a cold and everyone flees - except gold-hearted Molly. She endures the big baby with nothing but grace. After all, she is in love with him...Birthday gift number 2 for Morbidbydefault


The tea cup and the saucer clattered together as Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs, carrying a tray with tea things. As usual, it was still quite in Sherlock's flat. For any other person, 9.30am would be a time to rise and shine, but not for her precious tenant. She figured that he must have gone to bed quite late, which was common with this man. Somehow, he seemed to loathe sleep, fighting it off as long as he could until he was so exhausted that he was about to pass out. Mrs. Hudson couldn't understand this at all. She had always loved sleeping. Dreaming was one of the best things in life, she thought as she put the try on the little table besides John's chair, which hadn't been John's chair almost three years and a half now. But he still reserved it for him and there would be no other place John Watson would sit when he came visiting, having his babygirl Jamie strapped to his chest these days. Oh, how wonderful it was to have a child in her life again, Mrs. Hudson mused happily as she tidied the place up a bit, for her tenant never cared to do it. Little Jamie was a ray of sunshine and Sherlock absolutely adored her. If John wouldn't bring her over for a few days, he was unbearable and annoyed John and Mary with texts and even phone calls sometimes until John brought her over.

Mrs. Hudson's heart never ceased to swell with affection when she saw Sherlock handling Jamie with utmost care and tenderness while he had her sitting on his lap or carrying her about the rooms, whispering things to her in his softest voice that made the babygirl squeal with delight. He did this for hours and John was mostly being ignored, so he often called up Mrs. Hudson and the two of them chatted while Sherlock had fun with his goddaughter.

Ah, such happy times, Mrs. Hudson thought with a smile on her face. Very well deserved, she might add, after that whole Moriarty affair. But it was dealt with now, Molly was safe and had recovered from her minor injuries, and Sherlock, well, he still was recovering from his inner wounds. If those thickheads would only realize what they were to each other…

 **HAAACHOOOO!**

Mrs. Hudson froze.

 _Oh dear Lord!_

Without a second of hesitation, she sprinted for the stairs, ignoring the pain shooting through her hip. As fast and as silent as possible, Mrs. Hudson hurried down the stairs and into her flat, grabbing her purse and her jacket before she bolted for the front door, leaving everything else behind.

"Mrs. Hudsooon!"

The elderly lady flinched and threw the door shut quickly. Walking away from 221 Baker Street swiftly, she put on her coat and grabbed her mobile, sending off a text to John, Mary, Mycroft and Lestrade:

 _CODE RED!_

 _I'm out!_

On the other side of the city, John and Mary lifted up their mobiles to check their messages. Their heads snapped up and they looked at each other with nothing but horror in their eyes.

"You get Jamie, I'll get the bags and the keys."

John nodded and they buzzed around the flat until they had Jamie put in her carrier, who was kicking her legs happily and chewing on Daddy's mobile while said Daddy was slinging one black bag around his shoulders. In a hurry, the Watsons left their little house and jumped into the car, driving as if the devil was after them. While Mary's driving caused squeaking noises, John fired off a text.

 _Watsons out!_

Not far away from Buckingham Palace, Mycroft Holmes was hurriedly throwing files and papers into his briefcase and closed it after a quick look around. Nodding to himself, he took the briefcase and left his office. Anthea waited for him in the hallway, hurrying alongside him now.

"Your flight leaves in an hour" she informed him and handed him a flight ticket.

"Perfect", he commented and pulled out his mobile.

 _On my way to the airport. Out._

When Greg Lestrade stepped out of the conference room, first thing he did was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He definitely needed one after two hours discussing open cases and being yelled at by his superior.

With a frustrated sigh, he sipped the hot liquid and strolled over to his desk where a blinking mobile was already waiting for him, begging him to check his messages. He took his time though, sitting down and checking his mails before he finally picked up the phone and unlocked it.

He selected the messenger.

His eyes widened in shock.

He let out a frustrated groan and let his head clonk on the desk.

Life was so unfair sometimes. With his forehead still pressed to the wood, Lestrade started typing.

 _I hate you all._

Every time. Every single time in the past six years! Why, he asked the heavens in desperation, squeezing his eyes shut. He was a good man! He stopped murderers from killing people! He was faithful to his wife, even though she had slept around quite a lot. Yet, he didn't file for divorce! He fought for his marriage! Wasn't that worth anything? Anything at all?

It just wasn't fair it was always his turn to take care of sick Sherlock!

~oOo~

True, he somewhat had a bad conscience as he entered St. Bart's. But it wasn't bad enough to beat down the little evil voice inside him that told him that he could get out of Sherlock-sitting.

 _Only put on your puppy eyes. You know they work on her,_ it sneered into his ear evilly as he walked through the old hallways of the building, heading for the labs.

 _Just tell her you have too much to do with the cases. It's not even a real lie. Just stretching the truth_ , it continued to hiss as Greg pulled open the door.

 _She has complained that he doesn't show up here anymore ever since Moriarty had threatened to kill her. She will be happy to take care of him. It will be fine! Now, there she is. Ask her! Just ask her!_

Taking a deep breath, Greg called out to her. Molly looked up from her work (he didn't even want to know what it was. The blood on her lab coat was enough, thank you very much) and smiled at him. This almost made him falter. But oh, that evil sneer inside him forced him to go through with it. He was its puppet, and he put on the biggest puppy eyes he could manage. As expected, they worked. Molly's smile instantly faded away and she hurried over to him, placing her hand on his lower arm.

"Greg? What's wrong?"

He sighed, putting on quite a show for her, a part of him hating himself for deceiving her like this.

"It's Sherlock."

Molly's eyes widened and for one brief moment, Greg saw sheer panic in them. He hurried to explain.

"He is sick. Nothing serious, though. Just the flu."

Molly smiled, relieved.

"So?"

"Well…everyone seems to be quite busy or out of town…and there is no one who can take care of him…I myself am being totally swamped with cases…"

He felt heat creeping up his cheeks. He prayed to God he wasn't blushing at the lie.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, she's out of town…as well as the others, I'm afraid. In fact, she asked me if I could stop by…bring him some groceries and stuff…"

He cleared his throat and cast his eyes to the floor. No, he couldn't do this to Molly. He would do it himself. It really wasn't _that_ bad. He could endure it. Maybe if he…

"Don't worry, Greg. I'll shop after work and bring him some medicine. Boy, you really feel guilty that you can't check up on him, don't you? I'm sure he'll understand."

Great, now he felt even worse. Still, he smiled and nodded, thanking her profoundly before he took his leave.

 _You're a bad man, Gregory Lestrade. A very bad man._

 _Yeah, but a free one,_ that little voice snickered.

~oOo~

The first thing Molly noticed as she entered 221 Baker Street were the noises coming from upstairs. The TV, clearly. Maybe it wasn't that bad, Molly thought as she tightened the grab on the two bags she was carrying and started climbing the stairs. The noises from the telly got louder and when Molly reached 221b, her mouth fell open – which she closed a second later after the stuffy smell filled it.

There were little white handkerchief balls flying around literally everywhere, added to the mess this flat usually was. Her eyes fell on a couple of tea bags on the floor as she entered the kitchen, wet and oozing brown water. A broken cup was next to it and on the counter still sat the kettle with the luke warm water in it. First thing she did after putting the bags on the table was to put the kettle on and clean up this mess, grabbing some of the white, snot-filled balls along the way and throwing them out.

After the kettle had boiled, she put a special herbal tea in it before she dared to set a foot into the living room. Her eyes fell on the big fort of blankets on the couch and a little smile played around her lips as she turned off the TV. Proof that Sherlock was lying on the couch was given by a leg and an arm sticking out of the white pile.

 _No socks. Tsk._

Shaking her head disapprovingly, Molly walked the couch and kneeled down in front of it where she suspected Sherlock's head must be somewhere.

"Sherlock?" she asked gently.

When there was no reply, she placed her hand in his and called him again. After a few second, his big fingers curled around hers weakly.

"M-Molly?"

Her heart cramped at the hoarse, weak sound of his voice.

"Yes, it's me. Greg asked me to check up on you. How are you feeling?"

He mumbled something she couldn't understand through the heavy blankets, so she let go of his hand and started shoving them aside until the black mop of curls came into view. He groaned as the last light of the day fell on his face and tried to push the blanket back over his head.

"No, no, no. We have to get you into bed."

"Just leave me…it's too late…"

Her heart melted at his weak whisper and she placed a hand on his cheek. She gasped.

"Oh my God. Sherlock, you're burning. Let me get the thermometer."

Molly had stood up and was about to walk when she was pulled back.

Sherlock was still holding her hand.

"Sherlock, you have to let go of me."

He grunted and only clutched her hand tighter. Molly couldn't help but smile as she peeled his digits off of her one by one.

"I'll be right back", she said softly and walked to the bathroom, picking up more used handkerchiefs on her way.

"Now, come out of there so I can take your temperature", Molly ordered after she had sat down on the couch next to blanket-mountain, thermometer in her hand.

Sherlock only grunted. His head had disappeared beneath the surface completely again and Molly had to dig surprisingly deep with her hand to find it. When she felt the rough, damp curls beneath her fingers she gently wove through them.

"Sherlock", she called him again, still stroking his head. "Come out."

"No. It's cold out there. Just leave me to die and be done with it. Everyone would be happier, anyway. They all hate me."

Molly rolled her eyes. He sounded like a pouting little boy. Well, in a way, he did always sound like this, didn't he? When he wasn't sounding like a big arrogant show-off, anyway.

She bit down her lip to suppress a giggle.

"You know that's not true. We all love you and care about you. Now, let me take care of you and you'll feel better in no time. I have healing hands."

Finally, Sherlock's head emerged from the pile of blankets, not unlike a turtle's.

His eyes were blood-shot and his cheeks and nose flushed, the rest of his skin was as white as the blanket. His curls had lost their natural bounce and clung to his sweaty head.

"You're tending to the dead, Molly. You can't do them any more harm. It has nothing to do with healing hands."

"For someone so sick you can still be surprisingly nasty."

They glared at each other. A bit of snot was running out of his nose.

Was it crazy that she found it adorable?

With a smile she reached for a handkerchief and wiped his nose. He let her do it, his eyes fixed on her.

"A fiver you'll be back on your feet by tomorrow, same time. Given that you let me do my magic on you."

Oh, she knew him well. Of course he couldn't pass up a challenge.

"Fine", he grumbled in the end.

Molly beamed.

"Perfect. Now, open your cakehole."

"My cakehole?! Molly, if you think…"

He was interrupted by the thermometer being pushed into his mouth.

"Good boy", Molly grinned and Sherlock glared at her, but closed his lips around the hideous object.

"These days you take the temperature from the ear."

"Do you have a thermometer which does that?"

"No."

"Then shush. Now, give me your arm."

"No, it's cold."

Molly sighed and stuck her hand into his fort, feeling around, her fingers roaming over his hot chest before he lifted the arm so she could reach it. Pressing her fingers down on his wrist, she took his pulse.

They're gazes locked only for a second, then Sherlock looked away.

Was he blushing? Hard to tell in his state.

But his pulse was definitely abnormally fast.

Molly smiled to herself and let go of his wrist.

"Pulse is quite strong. Obviously, you're not as sick as you want me to believe."

"I'm dying!" Sherlock protested and was on his feet a second later.

Wrapping his blankets around himself, he walked in the direction of the bathroom while he continued to yammer.

"It's a blessing for every living man and woman that you've become a pathologist. Every one of your patients would be doomed, it being obvious that you are unable to diagnose a serious disease when it stares you in the fa-fa-fa- HACHOO!"

At his door, Sherlock swayed, feeling dizzy from his violent sneeze and – due to his hands clinging the blankets – bumped against the wall like an over-sized marshmallow.

Molly was there when his knees weakened and wrapped her arms around the blanket monster, shoving him through the door and helping him walk to the bed where unfortunately, he slipped through her fingers and fell rather gracelessly onto the mattress.

Of course Sherlock complained, his face pressed into the sheet.

Molly stifled a laugh and rolled him around.

"See what I mean?" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm sorry. You're a tall man with two blankets wrapped around you and I'm just a tiny little woman, as you are so lovely to point out on occasion."

Biting her lip, Molly did the best she could to pull the blanket from underneath the sick consulting detective, bringing him in a comfortable position and cover him up again. The brat didn't help at all, so Molly actually did break a sweat.

"There. Thanks for not helping. Now, where are your socks?"

"I don't want socks", he growled and rolled onto the side into a small ball.

"You can either tell me or I'll look myself."

He remained silent.

With an impatient huff Molly straightened and walked to his wardrobe.

"Fine. Finally gives me a chance to inspect your wardrobe. I always wondered what kind of knickers the great Sherlock Holmes wears."  
Sherlock still didn't say a word, so Molly opened the doors and took a look around, opening drawer after drawer until a neon colour hit her eye.

"I never thought you were a man for pink knickers, Sherlock", Molly giggled.

There was rustling coming from the bed and Molly couldn't help but take the briefs and unfold them in front of his eyes, pulling at the elastic and grinning at him.

"These aren't mine!"

"I bet your butt looks really cute in those."

"Put them back!"

"And look, a willy window. How practical."

"For God's sake, they're in the bottom drawer!"

Sherlock's shout ended in a cough and Molly decided that she had teased him enough. Even if he wasn't near death, he was indeed sick. So she quickly put the briefs back where she had found them and opened the bottom drawer.

"Don't you have any woolen socks?"

"No."

"Doesn't your mum knit you some? I always get a pair at Christmas from my gran. Mum's not really into knitting. I, on the other hand, find the task quite relaxing."

"Molly, please stop the jibber jabber. I've got a headache and I can't tune out your silly rants about your boring little life."

Molly flinched and closed her eyes.

She mustn't be hurt by this, she told herself, he only said this because he was sick.

Repeating this over and over inside her head, she went to stand next to his bed and sat down, uncovering his feet and putting on a normal pair of black socks. She could feel his eyes on her but refused to look at him, concentrating solely on his feet, an area of his body she had never inspected this closely before.

"Obviously I didn't mean any of that."

Her heart skipped a beat, but instead of looking at him she put on the other sock and covered them with the blanket.

There it was again.

This moment of awkward silence between them. Ever since he had come back from the dead they continued to have these. Mostly because he said something as stupid as now, which was weird, because she had been used to it before he had jumped off the roof. Yet, things somehow had changed. Their relationship had changed so much. Molly didn't really know why. Because she had risked her career to help him? Because she had lied to her friends, John most of all, had watched them suffer and grieve while she had to keep the secret that Sherlock was still alive? Because there had been this awkward moment in the morgue right after the fall where they had just looked at each other, neither of them saying goodbye, just drinking each other in before he slipped out of the room and out of her life? Or was it, and this seemed ridiculous even to consider, she had been engaged to another man?

Maybe it had been a combination of all of it.

Point was that Molly had no idea what Sherlock and her were to each other anymore. It all had gotten worse since Molly had broken off her engagement. Since then there also were moments when either or both of them froze when their hands touched or their arms bumped into each other while they were working in the lab.

If Molly didn't know any better, she would think that Sherlock felt more for her now. But she instantly reminded herself that Sherlock Holmes didn't do love, that he thought of it with nothing but disgust. Romantic love, anyway. He had become quite good at being a friend…for a Holmes.

The boiling kettle ripped her out of her musings and Molly rose from the bed to go prepare the special herbal tea she had brought. It was a mixture her granny had created years ago and which always did wonders when she was sick. She also put some biscuits on a plate and carried the tray into Sherlock's bedroom.

Molly could feel him watching her but she only looked at him when she was about to put the cup to his lips.

"Blow, it's hot."

His glazed-over eyes kept looking at her as he did. Molly couldn't help but look at his beautiful mouth, allowing her thoughts to drift into a whole other direction for a second.

When Sherlock opened his mouth, Molly bit her lip and carefully tilted the cup so the hot liquid could enter his mouth.

After he swallowed, Sherlock made a face.

"Needs sugar. Not sweet enough."  
"No, you're not", she replied before she could stop herself.

Molly put the cup on the bedside table and Sherlock snuggled back into his pillow.

"I'm sick, I don't have the energy", he defended himself.

"You're never sweet."

She looked him straight in the eyes. Sherlock lowered his gaze.

"Sleep. I'm going to clean up your flat and make you a broth. It works wonders with…sorry, no jibber jabber."

She gave him a small smile and left, closing the door on her way out.

~oOo~

An hour later, Sherlock was fast asleep and the flat looked halfway presentable again. She had brought out the trash and cleaned the kitchen as thoroughly as possible before making the broth. Now it was simmering and Molly decided to also mop the floor, just to take this chore off Mrs. Hudson's hands. The lovely woman did enough for this man as it was.

In the middle of the task, though, Molly was called back to work by one of her colleagues, sobbing into the phone. Something about her boyfriend – a fellow doctor working at Barts – having broken up with her and flirting with someone else right in front of her eyes. At least that's what Molly understood through the sobs.

With a sigh she leaned the mop against the doorframe, told her that she would be there in fifteen minutes and hurried off. Sherlock was asleep, so she thought she could pop out for a little while.

Oh, how naïve she had been. When she stepped through the door to 221b again, she nearly got a heart attack.

Sherlock was lying face down on the kitchen floor, bare-chested with the blanket only covering his lower half.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" Molly gasped and was by his feet in an instant, almost slipping on the still wet kitchen floor. Molly froze in horror, deducing that he must have slipped and fallen because of the wet floor.

"Oh my God, I'm so so sorry, Sherlock."

Her hands wrapped around him and she turned him very carefully, feeling his burning wet skin beneath her fingers. He was shivering, his eyes fluttering open and close.

"You left me. You just left me to die", he whispered weakly while she tried to get him to stand.

"Muriel has been dumped by Tim and was close to a meltdown, so I quickly popped over to Barts."

"So she is more important than I am?"

"Oh, Sherlock. You were sleeping!"

"Or was it your plan to kill me all along? Now I understand why you wanted me to wear the socks."

"Don't be ridiculous. Come on, we have to get you in the tub."

"You want to drown me now that your plan has failed? Good choice. I'm hardly strong enough to fight you."

Molly gritted her teeth, scolding herself for her aching heart and her shaking hands.

She mustn't pity him, she thought sternly while she wrapped his arm around her shoulder and forced him onto his feet, no matter how weak he was or how shaky his voice sounded.

"Please help a little, Sherlock. You're heavy."

"And shorten the last moments I have before you end me? Oh no."

After several failed attempts to secure the blanket around his body, she thought to hell with it and simply let it drop on the floor.

She yelped as she saw, well, all of him.

"Sherlock! Where are your clothes?!"

He leaned his weight on her, pressing his very naked, very warm, very soft body against her much smaller one.

"Too hot."

"You need the warmth", Molly insisted and started walking towards the bathroom, huffing as she pulled the tall naked consulting detective along.

"Come on, sit down", she ordered him after they had reached their destination and pushed him down on the closed toilet seat. As he slumped down, his head bumped against the wall. Sherlock let out a grunt.

"Why do you torture me, woman? What have I done to you? No, don't answer that."

Molly draped a towel over his lap and the thing between his legs, double-checked if he was somewhat steady, then turned around to open the faucet.

"Molly!"

The pathologist now nurse whirled around, catching the former consulting detective - now a big baby - and prevented him falling off the toilet.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Molly huffed as she pushed against his shoulders to lean him back against the wall. She could swear he was pushing against her hands, his face resting on her shoulder, his nose brushing over her throat.

"I'm cold", Sherlock complained. "Get me my blanket."

Even though she had no doubt that Sherlock could easily fake shivering, she didn't think he could will his skin to have goose bumps.

"I can't leave your side. You're too weak to keep upright. If I go you'll just tip over and land face first on the rug. Although this would be quite funny to see, I don't think I could lift you up again."

"I'll manage", Sherlock pressed through gritted teeth.

"Really?" she looked at him innocently.

Their faces were close. Molly could see the little brown spots right above his pupils. _Beautiful_ , she thought as she always did when she got a close look at these amazing eyes.

"I swear, if you let yourself fall, I won't pick you up. I will take a picture and leave. Understood?"

"Let myself fall? How dare you imply…I'm bloody sick!"

Molly rolled her eyes, pushed him against the wall and hurried to pick up his blanket. Sherlock was still sitting on the seat when she came back a second later.

"Good boy", she praised him as she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

"I am near death and you are mocking me. I'd thought more of you, Molly Hooper."

"Well, that is hardly my fault, is it? You shouldn't have put me on a pedestal."

"I did no such thing", he snorted.

"That's what you just said."

He snorted again.

"I said I thought more of you than you being a person who would make fun of people who are near death."

"You mean you thought more of me than being a person who remains with and takes care of a man who has been nothing but horrible to that person over a time span of six years?`"

That did shut him up. At least for a minute.

"I've not _always_ been horrible."

"Have you not? Then please, enlighten me. When have you been nice to me?"

"Very often", he insisted with a pout.

"For example?"

His eyes darted around while he thought.

"I complemented you on your working skills. And I told you look nice several times."

Molly snorted a laugh.

"When did you ever compliment my looks? Truly, I mean, without trying to get me to do something for you?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Only the sound of the water filling the tub was heard.

"That's what I thought", Molly said after a minute, smiling at the triumph.

"I complimented your hair that one day…when you were wearing this weird braid."

Molly shook her head.

"Even when you compliment me you insult me."

"I didn't-"

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm just messing with you. I know you don't find me attractive. That is nothing you or anyone can influence."

He looked at her for a long moment, his cheeks pale and his nose red from the flu.

"I never said I don't find you attractive."

Molly's heart did a little flip. Her throat went dry at the way Sherlock openly looked at her.

"Oh. I just assumed-"

"Well, you know what they say about assuming."

She smiled at him. Hiding a blush, she turned around and closed the faucet.

"Bath is ready. Let's get you in there."

Molly assisted Sherlock by holding his hand and guiding him with a steadying hand on his hip, his chest and his back, which was more intimacy than she had in months. She sank down on the rug next to the tub and grabbed a flannel, dipped it in the hot water and carefully started to wash his chest and arms. She didn't dare to move far below the surface.

When she pressed the blue flannel to his forehead, Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"Would you like me to wash your hair?"

"No. Keep doing this. This is nice."

Molly smiled.

She continued to gently dab his face, throat and neck until Sherlock dozed off. His lips were parted and she could hear him breathe, heard the effort it took. Maybe his lungs were affected, too, she thought as she looked at his serene face.

She inwardly sighed.

It was sad how happy it made her to be able to just look at him for a while, to take in the features of his unique face. Comfortable silence filled the bathroom – now that the big baby was asleep, Molly silently giggled –, the hot water letting the temperature rise, making her feel all cozy and warm. The circumstances were to blame when Molly moved the flannel a bit so her thumb could touch his skin. It was hot and surprisingly soft. Apparently, Sherlock Holmes even shaved when he was 'near death', as he claimed.

She bit her lip as the flannel slipped through her fingers. Hesitating only a second she reached out and as tenderly as possible, her hand cupped his cheek.

Happiness and sadness clashed together inside her heart.

Then he opened his eyes.

Her hand was still on his cheek.

The sound of her fast beating heart filled her ears.

His eyes.

Unguarded.

Whispering of feelings she wished to be true.

But no, she thought, as she let her thumb brush over his cheekbone. Sherlock didn't want to feel and that would always be in their way.

Still, she supported his head when he leaned into her hand and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be vulnerable.

Molly wouldn't harm him.

She would always catch him if he'd fall.

He enjoyed her touch, the soft warmth of her skin, the tender strokes of her fingers.

So comforting…

Molly smiled as she saw him drift off again and stayed with him for another fifteen minutes before she woke him.

Back in bed she put the blanket over him, making extra sure his feet were nicely tugged in, and smiled down at him.

"Sleep tight, Sherlock."

His arm appeared from under the blanket and the long fingers curled around her wrist.

"Don't go."

"I won't. I'm just outside in case you need me."

She made an attempt to stand up.

"I need you now."

Worried by the huskiness of his voice, Molly fully turned back to him.

"What is it? Would you like another tea?"

He nodded. His eyelids fluttered. Sherlock was fighting against his body to stay awake.

"Water. My phone-"

"No, Sherlock, you need rest."

"-and you."

"What?"

Did he say what she thought he said?

His hand let go of her and fell onto the bed. He passed out again. Careful not to wake him she put his arm back under blanket and brought him the requested tea and water, but not the phone.

"Where are you going?" his voice stopped her when she wanted to sneak out again.

"Sherlock, I don't-"

"Please."

His blue eyes were on her, glazed over from the fever. They were begging her.

"I need you…with me."

For a second she stared at the door. He was so weak and vulnerable right now. But so was she. She had been so strong. She was in the process of falling out of love with him and she feared if she got too close again…

He coughed hard and she closed her eyes.

No, she shouldn't. She must think of herself for once. He'd survive. He's just the little drama queen he always was. After a goodnight's sleep he would be his old cold self again and she…her heart would be full of him again.

No. No…

"Molly?"

Her hands balled into fists.

"Yes?"

There's a slight shake in her voice.

"Please stay with me."

She let out a breath.

Defeated.

Lost.

"Fine."

Slipping out of her shoes and placing them next to the door, she rounded the bed. It felt like she left her body for a moment and watched herself climb into bed with the man who had caused her so much heartache.

With a fast beating heart she laid on her side and watched him watching her, for a longer time than she could handle.

"Come closer."

Oh, someone help her.

She obliged.

"Closer."

"Sherlo-"

"Please."

Oh, why could this man never play fair?

In the end, she was lying cuddled up against him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, his head next to her bosom.

Finally satisfied, he closed his eyes. But her eyes remained fixed on him, watched how he drifted into a deep sleep, his face serene and so much softer than his wake self. This image burned a hole into her heart.

The familiar pain was back. This pain only he could create inside her.

No man had ever hurt her like he had. Not David, her first love who had cheated on her, not all the boyfriends she had had throughout the years. Not Jim. Not Tom, with whom she had thought she could be happy.

None of them had ever made her feel as bad as he did.

And yet, here she was, lying in his bed, breathing his scent and watching over his sleep.

Tom was right, after all. She would never be free of him…

~oOo~

Hours later, the room in complete darkness, Molly was woken up by something poking her eye. It took her several seconds to realized that she had fallen asleep with her cheek resting on top of Sherlock's head and the thing poking into her eye was one of his locks. She heard him breathe through his open mouth and felt the heat of his body even through his thick hair.

Ah, she pitied him. She couldn't help it. Curse the soft nature of her heart, he would always have a spot in it.

Tenderly, she placed a kiss on his burning forehead.

She jumped when a low hum emitted from his throat.

"Nice. Again", he ordered into the darkness.

Molly shook her head. This man and his commanding tone.

"You're impossible", she whispered against his fringe.

"I'm dying, Molly."

Her eyes flew shut and she pressed her lips to his skin again.

"You're not dying. I wouldn't let you."

Molly pulled him to her chest and stroke his cheek.

To hell with being strong. Under the veil of the night it was so easy for the heart to overpower sense.

Her lips brushed over his hot forehead.

"I'll get the cloth."

"No", he said urgently and buried his face in her bosom.

"Don't go. Don't leave me, Molly mine."

Her heart skipped a beat and her hands wandered into his hair.

"I will be good. Please."

"Shhh."

Tears were lurking in the corners of her eyes.

Sherlock melted her heart into a puddle. Even after all these years she had no defense-mechanism against him. She was pathetic. Pathetic and lovesick.

"Do you need anything?"

"Just you", he croaked, his lips moving along her throat, causing shivers on her skin, "only you."

"You have me", she whispered and kissed his temple.

"Promise", came his reply, only a hush.

Molly's eyelids fluttered closed as his lips and nose grazed her sensitive skin.

Her heart was pounding in her chest. A little voice begged her not to say it. She would be doomed if she did.

The thing was, though: She already was.

Here in his bed, surrounded by darkness, him in her arms begging her, she knew that it would only ever be him.

"I promise."

Sherlock let out a long hum and she couldn't help but giggle when his smile tickled her throat.

"You're an idiot."

"Regardless, you're mine now. You promised."

"I begin to think that you set this whole thing up."

"That would be ridiculous."

She could still feel his smile.

"Yes, especially stripping naked and letting me see your thing."

"It's called a penis, Molly."

She giggled.

"Molly?" he asked into the silence that had fallen between them.

"Hm?"

"Would you stroke my head?"

Gosh, that man could be so adorable.

Molly obliged and was rewarded with a low hum.

"Are you sure you don't want the cloth? You're still terribly hot."

"Later."

She sighed and kissed his forehead again.

Within fifteen minutes she felt him go limp in her arms again, drifting off to sleep. Molly kept weaving her fingers through his curls until sleep took her away, as well.


End file.
